


what it ought to be

by sirnando



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, So here we are, Unrequited Love, but the idea has been swimming around in my head, its not a happy ending be warned, ive labored over this for too long, oh but no one dies its not like that kind of sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23577352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirnando/pseuds/sirnando
Summary: They are standing in the middle of a field, Alfie’s cane slowly sinking into the mud. Tommy had made the phone call. He decided on the location and time. And Alfie would have pestered him with skeptical questions before, but it has been months now so he takes what he can get.-Or the one where Tommy wants to be loved, is scared to be loved, and refuses to love in the wrong way.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48





	what it ought to be

**Author's Note:**

> the * breaks indicate the present, - breaks indicate something that happened in the past, so basically first and last passages are present moment (which takes place after john's death, before alfie's. all past events are before john is dead)
> 
> i intended on titling this piece "everything in its right place" like the song by radiohead, because i wrote this basically listening to that on repeat and thought it was ironic, but perhaps misleading - so do with this information what you will!

They are standing in the middle of a field, Alfie’s cane slowly sinking into the mud. Tommy had made the phone call. He decided on the location and time. And Alfie would have pestered him with skeptical questions before, but it has been months now so he takes what he can get. 

Tommy can hear Alfie rustling around in his pocket, searching for a watch or stone to throw, growing uncomfortable in the prolonged silence. There were two reasons for this meeting, the second of which Tommy had formulated on the drive over. He begins with the latter.

“John is dead.” It’s just a statement. Except with Tommy, rarely is something ‘just’ anything—nothing is purposeless. Alfie is well-versed with this fact. 

This is the first time Tommy has said it out loud.

Alfie only provides a single, curt nod, gaze fixed on the expanse of land in front of them. Tommy will say nothing more regarding the matter, he knows this as well, but he still provides him a moment to continue, just in case this time is different.

It is not different, though the blanks in Tommy’s unspoken sentences can be easily filled in. 

He constructed this reality—introduced the violence to his family. Persuaded them to stay. Taught them to relish in hating his own enemies and defend him against them. He brought the death to his own home, unlocked the door and let it in. It is his own fault. He has killed his own brother.

_ Do you repent for that, Tommy Shelby? _ He is repenting right now.

*

They are fucking in an office, Tommy’s nails digging into the wood of a weathered desk, panting clouds onto the mirror they’re facing. Alfie had demanded they do this—so that he can inspect his performance in the curl of Tommy’s parted lips. 

Tommy gasps for air. 

It’s good. Really  _ fucking _ good, though Tommy is not quite sure if it’s the fuck itself or the satisfaction of finally receiving what he had been working on for months. The rhythm of the rocking lulls him into oblivion, the edge of the desk creasing into his thighs, droplets of sweat pooled in his cupid’s bow. His body thanks him for a pain that is finally pleasurable. 

Because Tommy is a lifeline for everyone but himself, he has concluded. He stands idly as others tear off the chunks useful to them, picking at his wallet and his brain.

But he is here now. He is entirely present with all of the pieces stitched back together. Each muscle is tightly clenched in an attempt to ensnare this feeling—to absorb it and store it away in the marrow of his bones for a time when Alfie is out of reach.

The notion that it takes someone else to make him feel whole is terrifying.

-

They are sitting in a car, fat drops of rain beating against metal. Tommy had offered to drive Alfie the rest of the way to London, knowing he will accept charitable acts from no one else. 

Perhaps it is the weather, the lightning striking somewhere in the distance, but Tommy can feel each one of his nerves buzzing—the pounding of blood clouding his vision. His knuckles tremble on the steering wheel. 

Alfie shifts in his seat, casting a glance in Tommy’s direction. His eyes are glazed over with the same desire currently burning in Tommy’s abdomen, their raspy breaths echoing in the space between them. 

They could do it, there in the back, Tommy thinks—he can see the offer developing on Alfie’s tongue. It would be tight and quick and messy, but Tommy can excuse the inconvenience.

So it happens exactly as Tommy predicts—tight and quick and messy. A tangle of limbs slick with saliva, half-opened shirts and searing skin.

They lay motionless for a while, packed into the square of space with Tommy’s cheek squashed against Alfie’s neck. He can feel Alfie’s pulse at this angle, a steady beat rocking him gently. 

Months of repeating this same routine have passed.  _ Fuck. Negotiate. Fuck. Negotiate. _ It would be inappropriate to discuss the distinction between their business and their emotions, so Tommy never dwells on the alternatives. But in this moment, nerves still rattling within his arms and Alfie’s heartbeat murmuring into his ear, a single fact emerges from the mesh of his thoughts: Tommy is fractured, incomplete, but he is willing to offer these scraps to Alfie if Alfie is willing to accept them. Perhaps that is what love ought to be. 

Greed floods his veins. A need for something more than what they already have consuming him. Tommy lusts for time now—for Alfie to invite him into his home, press him into snowy sheets and forbid him to leave until the morning light peeks out from behind the stained curtains.

He receives a slam of the door and a spray of rain across his forehead instead.

-

They are laying in bed after decently good sex, Tommy’s thighs still trembling, fingers running lazily through the hairs on Alfie’s chest. It will soon be a year since his nose was crushed up against the glass of that mirror. 

This feels _peaceful_ , Tommy thinks, a word not used often. He has begun to recite the emotions in his head, creating robotic lists to at least try and make sense of the tangled bits of himself he has left.

He is happy. Until he is not—Alfie shatters the bubble with six words.

“I'd be capable of loving you.” The proposal of a contract. Though the fade in Alfie’s voice tells Tommy he has already signed it.

_ Love. Love. Love.  _ Tommy traces the word onto his forearm with the tip of a lit cigarette, pressing hard enough for a sting—not enough to leave a mark. This is exactly what he wanted. 

Though now, standing face-to-face with the possibility, his original idea seems foolish. It settles heavily in the pit of his stomach, slowly rising back up as a bitter fluid, threatening to gag him. A contract indicates something will need to be given in return. Tommy cannot do that. He will not do that.

_ What they have could never be enough _ . He bites down on his tongue sharply, trying to swallow down the lie, and turns.

Alfie is already looking at him. “Have you gone fucking mute?” his eyes are angry, but sadness is there too, cowering behind his irises. 

The bile has creeped up even higher now, but Tommy’s panic transforms into aggravation. It’s not his fucking problem that Alfie’s allowed himself to fall victim to sentimentality, that he expected some grand gesture. Alfie needs to forget it.

He can feel his cheeks burning, left hand flexing and he’s thinking— he could do it. He could paint a fresh gash on Alfie’s cheek with the blade on his hat as a permanent reminder to never bring this up again. But Alfie breaks eye contact. Defeated.

“No.” Tommy verbalizes his answer regardless.

Love is a dirty word.

-

He is standing in front of a mirror, the light from a flickering candle illuminating his bare body. The skin on his knuckles has begun to crack, dry and flaking. The bones from his fleshless hips protrude on either side, a smattering of purple bruises across his stomach. What stares back is ugly—the shell of something Tommy cannot keep pieced together. 

He has not seen Alfie in three months. Has ignored each call, waiting for Alfie’s persistence to wane.

_ If they had met on a different point in the timeline _ ,  _ Tommy could have salvaged more of himself _ , he reasons. More of the bits worth taking. 

A scream begs to be released, pounding at his ribcage, but it’s dark, the child is sleeping. His eyes drift closed, waits for  _ ifs _ to drown him in the shadows. 

*

They are standing in the middle of a field, Alfie’s cane slowly swallowed by the dirt around them. Clouds are gathering along the horizon. It will rain. 

Tommy Shelby is the reason for the death of his brother. Tommy Shelby destroys all that he touches—the plight of someone given a second life.

He will be the reason for the death of this as well.

And the choice in venue suddenly becomes clear to Alfie. This is a ceremony—they are having a burial. They will carve out a hole in the black dirt squelching beneath their shoes and leave this relationship behind. It will only be a memory now—Tommy has decided. Alfie chews on the flesh of his cheek.

Tommy knows that Alfie understands because he has turned his eyes away from the expanse of land and fixed them onto Tommy’s temple. He can see the furrowed brows from the corner of his vision. 

“If we had been younger...” Tommy begins the eulogy, but quickly trails off, the words which had been shifting around in his brain suddenly erased. He has nothing to say—it is an observation and a statement in itself.

A deep sigh is the last piece he offers of himself.

There is a row of flowers growing a few meters in front of them—a sign of spring.  _ New life _ . Tommy is suddenly overcome by the urge to stomp all over them, pluck their petals off one by one.

Yes, perhaps if they had been younger, Alfie is thinking, because sometimes it is simply easier to pretend. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> i promise i have another happier one in the works *__*
> 
> i know i write pretty cryptically sometimes so i feel like maybe the connections i make are invisible to everyone but me and this whole piece is just a jumble of confusion, but ! i'm going to hope for the best :/
> 
> i hope you liked it nonetheless, let me know xx and come say hi on tumblr @hardytcm (:


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